The House of Ink

Things I Want To Tell My Mother

  I hate myself for not seeing your pain sooner

Knives, Cutting Boards, Knives, Cutting Boards,

You blamed The onions for your tears but it was actually my father’s fault.

He is a good man, but still he is a man. No matter how kind he is, he will forget that as strong as you are, as resilient as you are, you are not unbreakable

You are not unbreakable

  There were times when your food was extra salty and I knew you were crying over the stove

Your lips might lie but your food betrays you

Your tears are flowing in my veins

I bleed out when you cry

Tears, Tissues, and Trust Issues

You are the essence of what it means to be a women

You are as strong as steal and as light as air

You are both the flower and the wind that blows away its petals

  I am literally made from your blood

I flow in you and you flow in me

And when my blood boils it’s because I inherited your short temper

I am you

You are me

Mother and daughter

Sisters in soul

be happy for me.

No matter what I do to make her proud,

her pride is overshadowed by her regrets for you.

On the day of my graduation I stood in front of her

in my gown with a tassel

hanging down my head,

a first class graduate

 she looked at you

with tears in her eyes and said

‘it should’ve been you’.

I wonder if

on the day of my wedding

she’ll be fixing your hair instead of my veil

and holding your hand instead of my trail.

I wonder if on the day of my first child’s birth,

she’ll come to congratulate you

on being an aunt before

she congratulates me on being a mother.

I’m not jealous,

I’m not hurt;

I just wish she had enough love to go round.

I’m sick of patting my self

on the shoulder when I succeed and

drying her tears

when you hurt her.

I visit home

Every now and then

To renew my vows

To assure my country

I’m still in love with it

It still means the world to me

To fall in love with my heritage

All over again

To see the shade of my hair

In the night of the sky

To let the lights

Project a slideshow

Of a thousand memories

Into the back of my mind

To walk freely

Without the glares, stares and whispers

Of curiosity and ignorance

I visit home

Every now and then

To renew my vows

Until the honeymoon ends

And I return

To a guilty love affair

With a country I secretly hate

Like robots we walk past the turn styles;

oblivious to who stands in front and who walks behind.

We are even oblivious of ourselves;

our every move, action and word of tongue.

Who are we?

Humans lost without observation, touch, smell, sight, and acknowledgement.

Are we really alive just because we are able to walk and talk?

Are we really free from the voices and assumptions of ourselves and others?

Are we fearless and less worried of what others may be thinking?

Fact is no one knows whats going on inside but why do we think it shows in

faces?

The faces that which we show those we direct ourselves towards; with

happiness, coolness and excitement.

Just for one moment, could we be happy that we made someone other than

ourselves feel so content and less pain from our struggles?

I want to drown

In the ocean

            Of your eyes

And lose myself

In your

            Laughter

And weave

My fingers

            Through yours

And be blanketed

By the warmth

            Of your breath

And hang to the

Edge of your

            Every word

And climb into a small

Uninhabited corner

            Of your heart

And put down my burden 

Accumulated

             Over lonely years

And finally

Arrive

            Home.

The first time I remember ever having to defend myself because of my religion came right after the 2001 attack of the Twin Towers. I remember not understanding why it happened and why people like my family, who had nothing to do with the terrorist attack and had condemned it every way, had to go out of their way to let others know that. We were hurting too. We lost loved ones and mourned the innocent lives taken. And as the country drew quiet for a moment of silent, we did too.

But it became our duty in society to step up our patriotism and prove to others we weren’t the bad guys. And if we didn’t hang an American flag on our front doors and cars, and if we didn’t modify the way we wore our hijabs or dressed, we weren’t American-enough. If we didn’t constantly talk about how awful the attack was or try and convince others that “not all Muslims are bad,” then we were them. We were the terrorists, too.

As I grew older and became more aware of what was going on in the news, it became apparent. Islam will almost always be automatically associated with terror because of the few-crazed extremist who taint our name every time they decided to blow something up.

When the Charlie Hebdo attack occurred, I personally felt attacked, as a journalist and writer. And before the story fully unfolded and before the details of the attack came into light, I found myself praying, actually praying, the attackers were not Muslim. That’s actually the first thing I find myself doing when things like this happen. Please don’t be Muslim. Because that is the last thing Muslims need, another reason for the world to wrongfully hate us. Another reason we must forcibly defend our selves.

I am proud to be a Muslim and Islam is a beautiful thing. There’s no doubt about that to me. But I am getting tired of defending my religion and my people against things that have nothing to do with my religion and my people. I’ll say this one last time (hopefully), Islam isn’t bad, neither are Muslims. We are poorly represented by the media and the extremist who associate themselves with our religion.

There is no connection between the four Charlie Hedbo attackers and I; why must I go out of my way to justify what they did. The killing of innocent people disgusts me. Saying that I condemn these attacks as a Muslim only feeds the misguided and screwed up perception the public has of Islam. That these attacks are “Islamic”. So I don’t condemn these attacks as a Muslim; I condemn them as a human, because these killings have no relationship with Islam, at all. Stop the association, please.

It is a shame that we live in a world where people are so quick and eager to take a stance and make judgments based on the limited information they are being fed. Muslims are not terrorist. Muslims are not ISIS. Muslims are not what the media plays us to be. Muslims are surely not people who attack the innocent.

Those people just so happen to be Muslim.

I sat down near the sea, It was now sunset. The sea was orange and blue, Just as my feelings were so true.

I was thinking of today, Another day had pass. Time had passed so fast, Without any last.

Soon, the darkness had appeared. I gathered all my thoughts of the day, And buried them all away. I stood up and walked by the bay, Feeling the cool breeze, So soothing I wanted to stay.

But there came a touch upon my shoulder, Which felt warm yet colder. I turned and my mind crashed of thunder, Because ‘Why have you approached?’ is all I wondered. The notions caused bolts of lightning, With that my eyes began to rain, While the pain started to entertain.

I tried to turn away, But not a chance of a slight sway. My eyes met yours, like the wave meets the shore. The creeping pain, deep to the core. You stood before me, Like a tide of misery. As your fingertips rested on my cheeks, To wipe the tears that flowed through like creek.

You embraced me so hard, My nerves and neurons started to spark, Like the fireflies in the dark. Your voice, your words echoed in my heart: ‘It’s me, my pride and I To please you, be by my side Or my existence will collide.’

Finally, you realized. I looked into your eyes, And words with which I replied: ‘You threw me away like a tide of tsunami, And now you pick me up like a seashell. This love was never that compelled, But I knew you oh very well. Like an old magic spell, Could you not tell?’

walaikumaslam :)

She was an army within herself.

The right balance of strong and soft,

Like refreshment from rain when

The land had been too dry for too long.

She was the hand wiping sweat

From his brow when coiled fear.

She was the first to believe.

She was support like pillars upholding faith.

She was motherhood like petals falling

Into themselves to protect.

She was a wife like wild flowers

Blooming in a battlefield saying

“I’m here! I will always be right here.”

And when they’d ask him to recount

On her behalf, he would answer saying:

“You’d have to have been there to see it.

She was far too extraordinary

To paint with words.”

Like a shooting star, flexing and molding.

Like a date tree, giving shade and relief.

Like the hope that follows fear.

Like the comfort that follows destruction.

Like the irony of being cut so deep by

The absence of someone, but somehow being

Repaired by their memory.

Like Khadija.

Like Khadija.

City streets,

City streets,

The night is your bastard child.

And since police sirens

sound nothing like mothers' wails,

Take care of her,

Breath a little deeper,

smile a little wider,

laugh a little louder,

forget the loud voices,

dismiss the dirty looks,

close your eyes to the bad,

bow down to the Creator,

prostrate until you can no longer,

bring yourself some peace,

do yourself a favor,